Terumo / תרומה

This is a weekly series of parsha dvarim written by a frum, atheist, transsexual anarchist. It's crucial in these times that we resist the narrative that Zionism owns Judaism. Our texts are rich—sometimes opaque, but absolutely teeming with wisdom and fierce debate. It's the work of each generation to extricate meaning from our cultural and religious inheritance. I aim to offer comment which is true to the source material (i.e. doesn't invert or invent meaning to make us more comfortable) and uses Torah like a light to reflect on our modern times.

An appeal: It's nearly Ramadan and our comrades in Gaza don't have what they need. Please donate to my friends Mahmoud and Areej to help their families, and to other campaigns for Gazans if you're able to. Even $5 adds up to make a big difference.

Content note: mention of genocide

The parsha this week is a detailed list of instructions regarding the Mishkon ("tabernacle"), the portable holy tent which preceded the Beys haMikdosh (the Temple); and the thirteen offerings we can make to Hashem. We're without narrative.

Temuro is about diaspora. We are wandering in גלות—exile, a state all Jews are still in until Moshiakh comes (if he ever comes). We shlep around with our holiest place on our backs. Our geographic location is not as important as what we carry with us: our cultures, our words, our memories. Our most precious objects are intangible.

Holiness is not a place. It is a collection of words forming a memory, and the actions we take today to honor them. We remember and forget and reinvent our words. We offer some of them to Hashem and (more importantly) to each other. Hashem might not be here but we are, and I'm glad so many of us are committed to making "here" better.

We are not rooted, and the Mishkon, our holiest place and the dwelling of divinity, moves with us. In the event of disaster where we cannot break down and transport the Mishkon, we can (we must) take the ark. The ark houses the Torah and is permanently in a state of readiness. The Torah is more important than the physical dwelling and all its gold. It is the only physical object which matters, but it isn't really physical at all: it's a collection of words.

The Mishkon was designed to be portable and temporary, in contrast with the physically fixed (but still temporary) Beys haMikdash. Today, our holiest site isn't a physical location but Shabos, "a palace in time". It is separate from the mundane not geographically but temporally, and in our words and actions.

Most of the offerings we make to Hashem are very specific and not at all optional. But the gifts we're commanded to give in this parsha are voluntary: “G’d commanded that the procedure should not be like the imposition of every man’s contribution for the public charity fund which was treated as a tax. Contributions were to be accepted only from volunteers." (Sforno)

Without a Mishkon or Beys haMikdosh, we aren't able to make the (non-optional) sacrifices of animals and incense to Hashem. Instead we put the words on our lips: "May it be your will, ה' our G-d and G-d of our ancestors, that this recitation be considered accepted and favored before You as if we had offered the daily sacrifice at its appointed time and place, according to its laws." Equal to the act of sourcing the offerings, mixing the spices and slaughtering the animals, taking great care to do so, is the simple speech act of recitation.

Today there is no Mishkon. We aren't bringing Hashem gifts of gems or fine linen when our hearts are moved. If our sacrifices in גלות are spoken rather than tangible, what are our voluntary offerings? Do we offer tehilim and spontaneous prayer? Can words alone suffice? It's so easy to say things.

In the violent conditions of exile, continuity is broken: even the words are lost. Despite Torah being arguably the most important thing in our tradition, we have forgotten what some of it means. The animal תּחש (mentioned in this parsha as an animal we can offer to Hashem, and whose skin will cover the Mishkon) is maybe a dugong or maybe a dolphin or maybe something else: we don't know anymore.

If we believe that Torah was given at Sinai and is literally the word of G-d, it's pretty devastating to reckon with the fact that we've forgotten some of its words. No wonder we feel an absence of divinity in this world. We have been ruptured by genocides and assimilation to the point that there are things we don't know that we don't know about not only Torah but our own history and rituals and cultures. The forgetting is painful—especially for a people so obsessed with remembering. We have a broken lineage.

What is continuous is the presence of Jews and this wrestling with memory. In diaspora, Jews dwell everywhere. Where does Hashem dwell? Not just everywhere, but within allegedly every Yid.

How do we connect with Hashem when Hashem feels absent? Through mitsvos and davening. And when that doesn't work? I have tried, earnestly but without success, to have some kind of connection to G-d. I first became interested in davening as a Yiddishist when I realized that I could never understand the language of my ancestors if I didn't understand Judaism, because so much (dare I say: all) of Yiddishkeyt is predicated on Torah. In the same way that you can't understand Jewish cuisines without a basic knowledge of kashrus, I could never connect with Yiddish literature and history if I didn't know what it felt like to daven—to pray, to beg, to be humbled. To be angry at Hashem, and to cleave to Him anyway. Yiddish is a language of hardship, and coping with not only the hardship but the contradiction between hardship and "chosenness". There is an upper limit to how much you can understand about Yiddish culture without getting mad at G-d.

So I davened, and— nothing. And I davened more. I slowly learned the Shema and the Amida and shuckled in the corner. I wrapped tefilin and wore tsitsit. I said brukhas over every bit of food and drink before it passed my lips. I studied Torah. And, like before, I tried to be a good person and do mitsvos. Did it bring me closer to Hashem? No. It made me feel Hashem's absence.

My Jewish-Buddhist friend Josephine told me about the concept of Bodhichitta, which means both the awakened mind and the desire to awaken. The first step to being awake is truly wanting to be; she suggested that maybe the yearning for Hashem is how we make room for him. The Holy of Holies is an empty space in which Hashem dwells; the emptiness is a prerequisite for being filled. I'm empty. But where is He?

When I look at history and modernity, I can only come to one of two conclusions: either Hashem is not omnipotent and therefore is unable to create conditions for a good and just world; or He is, but chooses not to.

More G-d-fearing Yidn might suggest that this is a problem of free will, to which I say they have no imagination: there are plenty of ways that Hashem could intervene in our world to make it better without undermining free will. A more compelling argument is that Hashem is omniscient and we simply cannot understand the good reasons for why bad things happen—that they are, actually, not bad. But I reject this. When it comes to mass suffering, the ends do not justify the means. There is no acceptable answer.

Do I want to be close to Hashem? It's supposed to be good to be close and we are supposed to desire that. But no, I don't want to be close to Hashem. I've studies Yiddish and I'm too angry. I don't want to cleave to an abuser—not even to the abuser, but the idea of an abuser from foggy memory of when He was more maybe loving (though arguably not). That is what we cleave to: a projection, an imagined better time, a closer relationship before. "Cleave" means both to cling to and to separate: a perfect word for our anxious attachment.

Aside from when writing this weekly dvar, I do not waste time looking around and wondering where Hashem is. I am not seeking a silver lining in the darkness. I am trying to create light among others who are creating light.

I don't think that it's fair to say that G-d is the light we create in dark times—that would be stolen valor. Neither do I think approaching "G-dliness" is a worthy aspiration, given my low opinion of G-d. Despite my frumkeyt I remain an atheist. I don't believe in G-d but I do believe in people. I believe in the beauty of our words and how much we cleave not to Hashem but to our own laws and rules and sense of ethics. To be Jewish is to have obligation thrust upon you—obligation to G-d yes, but also to community. We are obligated to each other.